


Darling

by whoremet



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Total indulgence, fast burn, it's more like a love octogon tbh, jim gordon's niece, set before the dark night and after the final season of gotham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoremet/pseuds/whoremet
Summary: “My friends call me J.”“Are we friends?” he smirked and flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette.“We could be.”
Relationships: Edward Nygma/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Selina Kyle/Original Female Character(s), Victor Zsasz/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 4





	1. One

The Iceberg Lounge looked strange in the day, the dusty light filtering through coupe and martini glasses gave a strange reality and glaring honesty that wasn’t meant for places like this, where liars came to forget who they were. Wendy and her band, _Bluebeard’s Wives_ , were testing the sound system before their gig later in the night. Penguin had dedicated Fridays to shows by local bands to generate new revenue. It had taken months of pleading but he had finally allowed her to play. The word “okay” had barely left his lips before she was shoving her yellow Fender into her van.

Theo was the lead singer and he was running through a couple of verses of _Black Hole Sun_ to ensure the quality of the audio while she strummed the beginning of _Lounge Act_ , her fingers fumbling from her nervousness. It had been a long time since she had played for a live audience, not by choice. But her mother had needed her after what happened with her sister Michaela and… No use dwelling on that now. Theo had noticed her struggle and smiled at her.

“Truth, covered in security. I can't let you smother me, I'd like to but it couldn't work. Trading off and taking turns, I don't regret a thing,” the smooth drawl of his voice stopped her fingers from shaking and she plucked the strings, sighing in relief when she finally played the song correctly. “You don’t have to perform tonight if you aren’t ready Windex, I can be on guitar.” she shot him a shaky smile.

“No, it’s fine. Besides, we need you on the keyboard tonight.”

Jamie returned from his half-hour break three minutes before they were supposed to start reeking of vodka and with his arm around a girl Wendy had never seen before. The bassist, Joffe had been on stage before all of them. The room was pitch black, the crowd in the Iceberg Lounge looking at the stage curiously, usually, it was a jazz singer that sang on the third Friday of the month, that’s probably what these people were expecting. Wendy and Theo exchanged glances, he breathed deep and gestured for her to do the same. She silently obeyed and he squeezed her hand. With closed eyes and no introduction, Wendy strummed the first cords of _Pennyroyal Tea_ . The spotlight flicked on and Theo stepped forward, taking the microphone gently. He had no shirt on, just a leather vest with the band name painted on the back, black jeans and platform combat boots. This is what he loved to do and Wendy thought he must have been _meant_ to do it just by the way the audience sat in raptures staring up at him.

“I'm on my time with everyone, I have very bad posture.” he drawled.

Wendy leaned in and they sang the chorus together, her fingers picking up on her guitar. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the audience, knowing Mikey wasn’t there. She leaned away from his mic as Theo sang the next verse.

“Give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld, so I can sigh eternally.”

Wendy turned her eyes upward and Joan shot her a smile. Her sister must have brought along her fake ID because she was nursing a Cosmo, her eyes drunk and hazy. Wendy grinned at her before harmonizing with Theo again. It went well, all things considered. Like always, by the second song the performer’s high had gotten to her. It was as if her head was filled with helium and she was floating above it all, all her problems, all these people, and this shit city. It was just Wendy and her guitar. She pressed her fingers down hard on the strings until the steel bit through her calluses and she poured herself into it. She had a solo that night, the boys hung back as she sang Sugar Kane, it was freeing being under the spotlight. Even if she did open her eyes, it was too bright to see.

After the set Wendy slid through the crowd quickly, offering only half-smiles to anyone who stopped to compliment her, she would leave the chatting to the more sociable members of the band. As the unofficial manager of Bluebeard’s Wives, Wendy rushed to Penguin. “What’d you think Mr. C?” she asked him as he handed her four fifties. He seemed pleased but she couldn’t be sure.

“I only wish I had let you play sooner.” he was pleased, good. Her mouth bloomed into a wide smile as soon as he paid her the compliment.

“Does that mean we can play next month too?” he frowned and shuffled through the stack of papers on his desk, pulling out a schedule.

“Next Friday.” he told her, writing a big “BW” on the day and circling it. She clapped her hands enthusiastically and barely restrained herself from smacking her lips on his cheeks.

“Thanks Mr. C!”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Darling.” she nodded, pressing her back to the door as her hand slowly twisted it.

“See you then boss.”

Wendy ignored the shadows of burly men lining the hallway, used to seeing Oswald’s thugs hiding in the corners of the lounge. But she had been desensitized to violence since she was just a toddler. Murder had been a topic to discuss over dinner in the Gordon household. Her father and uncle were military men, her mother a detective. Wendy could never escape death, and maybe she didn’t want to. She had never minded blood and corpses, she could name twenty people who had died at gunpoint within the past two months, not all of them the GCPD knew about. She often knew more about missing person cases than her mother did. But Wendy was paid well enough at the Iceberg Lounge to keep her mouth shut when she needed to.

Besides, it wasn’t like her employer knew about her family; if he did Wendy was sure she would have joined the pile of skeletons Oswald kept in his closet long ago. Her sisters, Joan and Micaela were the only ones who knew where she worked, she was sure uncle Jim would have a fit so she had elected very early on to keep her involvement with the mafia a secret from him.

Wendy leaned against the side of her blue van waiting for Jamie to finish packing his drums away.

“That was a good set.” she smiled up at Zsasz and blew out a column of smoke.

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t know you could sing.”

“I can’t, Theo’s the singer.” she stuck her thumb out to their blue-haired lead, scribbling furiously in his notebook. “I’m just back up.”

“You’re good enough to sing, _Darling_.” his eyes were glinting with something dangerous, he leaned in close so his body was trapping her against the side of her van.

“Careful Zsasz, those kinds of compliments tear bands apart.” she took a drag from her cigarette and blew it out the side of her mouth so he wouldn’t get a faceful of smoke. His eyes flicked down to the cigarette hanging from her fingers distastefully.

“That’s a nasty habit princess.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing you don’t have to be around it, _princess._ ” she grinned sardonically and pushed away from him with a huff. “You guys ready?” she shouted to the trio, banging on the side of her van to get their attention. There were muffled shouts of affirmation and she dug her keys out of her bag.

She opened the door and felt Victor snatch her still burning cigarette from her fingers. She didn’t protest, but her eyes bore into his, waiting to see what he would do. He took a long drag and when he pulled away some of her lipstick was staining his pale lips, it almost looked like she had kissed him.

“Can I bum one?” she grinned and pulled her pack of Camels from her back pocket.

“Sure babe, I’ve got plenty to spare.”

She watched Victor in her rearview mirror as she drove away. He stood, the cherry illuminating a small grin as he watched her leave. She wouldn’t have noticed that she was smiling unless Jamie had pointed it out. She rolled her eyes and punched his shoulder, insisting she _did not_ have the hots for Victor Zsasz. But honestly, who was she kidding? Victor could have asked for a blowjob behind the dumpster and she would have taken him up on it. There was something about a well-dress killer, she couldn’t say no.

Wendy dropped off all her bandmates and soon she was home. Every apartment building within a reasonable price range in Gotham was a run down product of industrialization. Made with convenience in mind rather than artistry. The two bedroom Wendy used to share with Mikey sat on the border of the Narrows was not much better. It was a relic from the 1930’s that had been a meatpacking factory, then a fire station. Now it was owned by an old korean woman who smelled like inevitable death. Her small stone balcony served as the perfect place for her nightly smoke. Wendy had an old lawn chair and an ashtray next to it on the floor, nothing else. She had never been much of an entertainer. It used to be that she only needed a smoke once in a while; when things got tough at work, or her mother dropped by. But Wendy found herself reaching for her carton of Camels daily. The night brought a bite but she didn’t want to go back inside for a sweater, though she was barefoot and wearing only an old Zepplin shirt Ed Nygma had given her three years ago. She leaned over the side of the balcony and looked down the five stories to the tiny people wandering the sidewalk. The railing was cold and it bit into her arms and her stomach, but she took a long drag and her discomfort was all but forgotten.

Wendy leaned her lead to the side and tried to spy on people in her neighboring building. The average person was asleep now, but she had been on the closing shift so her body was still bustling, the effects of having to wait on fifteen tables alone. Her eyes trailed lazily up the building, there were a couple tired students and writers typing at laptops that illuminated the insides of their homes and tricked Wendy into thinking she knew them. She had never spoken to them but sometimes she would try to piece their lives together from the little she saw of them. There was someone new on the fifth floor, the apartment directly adjacent to hers. There was a light on in the bathroom, they hadn’t lived there long enough to have spent too much time decorating so she could see directly into their living room. There was a leather couch pressed against the far wall and an old boxy TV sitting on the floor with open VHS boxes scattered around it.

There was a takeout box from Ling’s Palace on the floor. She took a slow drag from her cigarette, Wendy remembered liking their egg rolls, but not the date she had been on when she ate them. She jolted when the bathroom door opened, and watched as a lithe figure emerged from a cloud of steam, before quickly turning away. Wendy jolted from her trance and put her cigarette out on the railing. God, she wasn’t some kind of stalker, and she _refused_ to peep on strangers. She scrubbed a hand over her face and quickly answered her ringing phone.

“Hey Ed.” she said, picking at a little hole on the hem of her oversized shirt.

“ _Hey, are you off tomorrow? I just found out about this great exhibit on unsolved murders at the Art Museum, the guy speaking has two PhD’s, one in forensic science and the other in history._ ”

“Sounds cool Ed, where do you wanna meet?”

“ _I’ll pick you up at 11:30,_ don’t _forget._ ” she tossed her phone when the line went dead. It was still in the apartment, stagnant. That beer can had been sitting on her counter for three days.

“I need to get my shit together,” she muttered angrily, throwing the can away, and before she could stop herself she glanced back up to her stranger.

Only the bottom half of his body was visible from her position, he still had a towel wrapped around his waist. What was he doing out with only a towel on? _He probably didn’t expect anyone to be watching him._ With that thought still in mind, she inched toward the sliding door. He was fidgeting constantly, his foot bouncing, thumb flicking the filter of his cigarette, tongue licking his lips. His eyes especially, were absorbing everything they caught sight of like a sponge. Which should have alerted her to the fact that he would soon catch sight of the lonely neighbor lady, _ogling_ him a mere ten feet away. His eyes were brown, she remarked as they locked with hers. Startled at first, she soon became comfortable with their staring contest. The rest of his body had stopped moving, now he was focused entirely on her. He released the railing from his hands and leaned forward on his elbows.

“Like watcha see?” she took her time to pointedly examine his body. He wasn’t bad, not muscular. In fact, he was _too_ skinny. To the point where his ribs were visible. His damp hair was dyed green and tucked behind his ears, which gave her a full view of his Glasgow smile.

“I might.” he looked amused, as though he had just discovered a dog that had been taught a neat trick. “What’s your name?”

“My friends call me J.”

“Are we friends?” he smirked and flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette.

“We could be.”


	2. Two

_How can you tell whether or not everything you see is fake? You could be living in a dream or a computer program. You could be living in a communist country whose government is lying to its people. Are our lives imitation? Our lives are imitation. Like tofu._

_Or maybe I’m just high._

Wendy jolted up from the couch. She clicked off the late-night _Friday the 13th_ marathon and rubbed her eyes.

“Alright, Wendy?” Ed asked her in a groggy voice.

“Yeah, I’m just tired.” she smiled and wrapped her arms around herself “And cold,” she laughed awkwardly and took a blanket from the back of their old green three-seater with a shaky hand.

It had been so long since their last trip, and Wendy was finicky on acid. You never knew with her, there were good trips, but then there were trips like… two years ago. Her friends and her sisters had gone out, tabs stuck on everyone’s tongue, it was supposed to be liberating. Celebrating freedom, new beginnings. But then… in the blink of an eye, it had gone wrong. Like the crack of a whip, a clap of thunder, a bottle of vodka smashing on the asphalt.

Micaela had been… _bad_ , for a while. She had never really recovered when their dad came back from Iran in a box. Wendy’s mother had tried her best, but she never really understood. It was more than her father that Micaela had been missing. Like she said in her suicide note, it was herself. As if she was detached from reality, like she was floating, and holding onto life above a black hole had become too wearying. She had been tired. There were ways she could have been helped if only her family had paid more attention, and that clung to Wendy’s psyche like hot tar. Wendy, in her grief, felt some of whatever had been weighing on her younger sister. She and her older sister had also been alienated during all this. Joan was angry at Micaela for what she had done. But Wendy was regretful and took the weight of Micaela’s death as though she herself had taken her sister’s life.

Wendy closed her eyes, tugging the blanket closer, and Ed knew she wasn’t alright. His mind jolted to start and he took her shoulders in his hands, rising slowly as if he were approaching a stray cat. In her mind she could see Micaela’s sneakers on the rain-slick railing of the Northbridge. Wendy should have known. Michaela had never been a daredevil. She partied hard, but she kept her feet firmly on the ground. No jumping off of waterfalls, no high ledges, none of the stupid shit Wendy loved to do. Back then, Micaela hadn’t made up her mind yet. But that night, when she spread her arms to the blackness of the sky, and she screamed. The five on the floor had laughed and howled with her. Wendy was halfway up to the railing to stand with her sister.

She hadn’t jumped. Wendy would have liked it better if she had jumped. Michaela fell forward. It had been sick, as if she were already dead before she even hit the waves. Wendy had screamed, but the sound was silenced by the tide. 

Ed led her gently back to her room and sat with her on her carpet. He pulled out her battered copy of _Les Elefantes Terribles_ and read passages to her. When the story drew it’s climax Wendy became nervous, so Ed shut the cover and read poetry to her instead. She liked to read Poe, Cummings, and Eliot on her own, for they better suited her personal aesthetic, but Ed knew that Wendy secretly longed for the blind romanticism of Keats, Byron and Shelley. It was something in the liberty of giving yourself so wholly to your emotions that she desired, but could never fully achieve. She wept when he read Adonaias, and Ed was fearful that it had been in poor taste, to read to her the romanticization of grief, when she herself was struggling through the smog of tears and rain. Always reliving Micaela’s death.

“To that high Capital, where kingly Death

Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,

He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,

A grave among the eternal.—Come away!

Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day

Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still

He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;

Awake him not! surely he takes his fill

Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.”

Wendy reached up and touched his face.

“Can souls die?”

“Do souls exist?”

Her eyebrows furrowed together and she looked at him, keenly observing the flickering of his eyes. They were the lightest, softest shade of brown.

Wendy couldn't sleep, so she and Ed waited for the sun together, lying on their sides with only the occasional whispered conversation. Wendy knew Ed could not possibly know the answers to her dead-end questions, but it was good to have a voice answering her meandering. When the sun came up Ed insisted that the pair of them escape their apartment. Having had enough of pale blue paint, she led him through the city. There were few places that brought her comfort when she started to question her mortality. Often it was the company of kindred spirits, Earl Grey lattes, and the pages of a book. They went to the Natural History Museum like they had planned, though they decided they were both too high to watch the lecture. So the pair sat in the middle of a display on Egypt. They had four generations of a certain family that was rumored to be made of mystics and witches. They had been buried in a temple to Bastet. She was sketching the people wandering through the exhibit, a little boy leaning over the barrier to get a closer look at a collection of parchment scrolls, two husbands looking at the trio of mummified cats, and a woman touching her clavicle as she gazed longingly at a display of enchanted jewelry. The past was romantic, that was one thing Wendy knew above all other things. What joy could she derive from this world of metal?

She leaned her head back, still half expecting to be swallowed by that thing that took Micaela. She was not, so instead, she let herself be swallowed by the hollow echoing of footsteps and quiet chatter in those marble halls. It is funny that the word “romantic” comes from Romulus. His reign was bloodsoaked, politically it flourished, but she would never call him romantic. Love finds its origins in violence, Wendy realized. People cling to one another, uncaring whether or not they are strangling each other, nothing matters but the love, and the ever-present need to forge an empire, to bring a sacrifice to your father, the God of War.

Wendy jumped when her phone began to ring, ringtone blaring above the soft conversation and clicking heels in the museaum like a line of red spray paint over a Monet. “Hi! Yes! Hello!” she shouted into her phone in quick succession.

“Hello dear!” the amused tone of her boss greeted her from the other end. “You sound surprised.” she gave a nervous chuckle.

“What can I do for you Mr. Cobblepot?”

“You’ve been promoted! We just had to… get rid of someone, so you’ve got the job!” Oswald said cheerfully, the direct opposite of the sinking feeling Wendy felt in her stomach.

“What job is that, Mr. Cobblepot”

“It’s all rather droll, to be honest. I’ll give you the details when you come in.” Wendy gulped and tugged on her roots nervously, eyes flicking around the road trying to think of a way out of this mess. “ _Now_.”

“I’m on my way.” She sighed and rubbed her hand over her face, slapping some life into cheeks. “You know of any good ways to end a trip early, Nygma?”

He turned his blown eyes to her and offered a sloppy half grin. “Sure do, Darling.”

__________

Wendy sat in the corner of the lounge, buzz successfully killed, drumming her black fingernails on the sticky bar. Her eyes shifted uninterestedly from her coworkers to customers. She only wanted Oswald to emerge from the barricaded office in the back. Waited for his chiming voice to yell a threat, or the classic _step, drag, thump_ that always sang his arrival.

“Hey.” came a sultry voice from directly behind her.

Wendy turned her eyes up slowly, afraid that too much movement would bring back the pounding headache she and only just managed to stave off. “Victor? Where’s Oswald?” Victor grinned like she imagined a shark might, all canines.

“Penguin’s busy, and you’re under new management!” Victor declared proudly, throwing his arms into the air so she could see the two guns in his holster under his jacket.

“And whose management is that?”

“Mine. Ya’see, Ozzie heard from a little birdie, that _Darling_ is not your real last name, despite what it says on your resume.” Wendy had told Fish her real name during her interview, she had only changed it on the records because Gabriella Gomez-Gordon, her _dear mother_ , was the most suspicious person Wendy had ever known. She snooped around her daughters’ business bi-monthly and Wendy wasn’t too keen to let her cop mother know she was working for a mob boss.

“I’m honestly surprised he bought that for so long.” Wendy mocked, her nose wrinkling at Victor. “So what now? What does he want with me?” Victor’s amusement increased with every word that left Wendy’s mouth, the smile lines around his eyes deepening as their conversation continued.

“Well, Miss Gordon, you are in a position of power and influence that Mr. Cobblepot wants to help you take advantage of.” Wendy quirked an unimpressed eyebrow, crossing her arms over her cropped Sex Pistols tee. He faltered if only slightly at her reaction, looking her up and down with a quirk of his mouth. “He wants _me_ to help you take advantage of it.”

“And how do you plan on doing that Victor?” Victor wondered if Wendy made her every syllable that emerged from her plum-colored lips drip with sass on purpose, or if it was a reaction to his tone. He softened it to test her.

“I’ll train you, I’ve trained assassins before, lots of them.” her eyes softened but her tone did not. She had pretty eyes, he thought to himself. Dark brown spun with green and gold, like earth-colored cotton candy peeking out from midnight curls and freckle dusted olive skin.

“I don’t have time for that, I have a life outside of this club and if Oswald tries to force me I’ll tell my uncle. You’re acquainted with Jim Gordon, aren’t you? White knight of Gotham? The most stubborn detective to ever grace Gotham’s streets?” Victor winced at the mention of Jim’s name. “Cool, tell Ozzie he’s free to give me a raise if he wants to but I’m not too keen to murder people.” she saluted the bald man goodbye and spun on her heel.

“You know who Penguin works for, don’t you?” she stopped, feet twitching with her urge to move forward, wanting to stick her nose up and say _‘I don’t give a fuck’_ but depending on Victor’s answer she might just give a fuck. “ _Don Carmine Falcone.”_ Victor drawled out his words like a blues song. They hung heavy in the air. Wendy cursed under her breath and turned back to Victor. Falcone was a lot scarier than Penguin, and therefore offered more incentive to listen.

“Okay, obviously that changes things.” Victor smiled knowingly. “Can I ask you what Ozzie plans on using me for?” Victor shook his head and tutted at her as though she were a misbehaving child.

“All in good time shnookums. We start tomorrow, eight a.m. sharp.” he turned around without waiting for her confirmation that she had heard him. Humming a little tune as he strolled to the back office. Wendy gave a resigned sigh and blew a curl from her eyes, rummaging in her bag for the keys to her van.

“The mob bosses call, I answer!” she chimed sarcastically, finally pulling her keys out by the 65’ Thunderbird keychain Uncle J had given her on her fifteenth birthday. He had made some dumb joke about her being allowed to drive the keychain once she got her permit. Funnily enough she got her first DUI at sixteen, before she even had her permit. She smiled at the memory of his proud little grin after he had delivered the joke.


	3. Three

Wendy heeded Victor’s words, setting her alarm to ring at seven for fear that he would get to her house sooner than eight. And she assumed he would pick her up, considering he hadn’t given her an address. She slipped on a pair of old nike joggers that hadn’t been worn since ninth grade P.E. class, a brandless pair of exercise shorts with purple stripes running down their sides vertically, and the obligatory band tee. This time it was the Ramones. The air around her buzzed with nervous anticipation, not because she was excited. No, she had woken up at six a.m. without any coffee and was therefore incapable of feeling any positive emotion. It was more like the feeling you get closing your eyes on a rollercoaster. The nervous jostling of her insides, the fear of the unknown.

Instead of the sleek black SUV pulling up to her building that she expected, she got an anonymous phone call.

“Where are you?” Wendy frowned at Victor’s tone.

“My apartment…? Where are you? I thought you were going to pick me up.” she looked out her window once more just to make sure she didn’t miss any menacing men stood in her street.

“Oh… did I forget to mention that?” Wendy could tell by the amusement in his voice that he had not forgotten to mention it. “You’re supposed to come to me. You have twenty minutes, better hurry!”

“Wait! Where are you? I-!” she huffed when the screen blinked at her angry red letters that told her Victor had hung up on her. She flipped her phone closed and rummaged around her room for a pair of black jeans. If she had to go on a goose chase for the man she was at least going to be comfortable. Wendy went to Oswald’s first, hoping that if Victor wasn’t there someone would at least know where he was. Butch was less than helpful, “upper east side” was his short reply, barely giving her a second glance before returning to nursing his midmorning beer. So she went to the upper east side, stopping and asking five random people if they had seen any bald assassins wandering around. They had shaken her off frightfully and held their purses and coats tighter to their chests. She wandered around the streets for two hours before giving up and finding a hotdog stand to drown her sorrows in.

“What’s got you down sweetheart?” she looked up from her coke to the hotdog stand man.

“What makes you think I’m down?” the hotdog vendor grinned and showed her his three missing teeth.

“That’s your third hotdog, you don’t seem very happy.” Wendy shrugged helplessly, sighing through an especially bready bite.

“I was supposed to be at this thing, but I don’t know where it is.” she admitted vaguely, readjusting the paper wrapped around her hotdog.

“Give me more information, sweetheart. I know the upper east side like the back of my hand, maybe I can help you out.” Wendy looked up at the middle aged man suspiciously. But really, what’s the worst that could happen? Everyone in Gotham had met at least one hitman, right?”

“Do you know where Victor Zsasz lives?” his eyes widened and a surprised laugh tumbled from his scruffy lips.

“What does a pretty girl like you want with someone like that?” Wendy turned her nose up at his compliment, but ignored it for the sake of his potential information.

“I work for him.” his eyes widened more if that was possible, looking over Wendy as if he were seeing her for the first time again.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble. I can move my stand if that’s what you want, I don’t care. Just please don’t hurt me.” the surge of power she felt run through her brought a smile to her greasy lips. The fear she had put in him, even if it was fear because of her association with someone else, was truly exhilarating. “Here,” he fumbled reaching for a pad and pen. “That’s the address.” he held his hands up like a man at gunpoint when she reached for the slip of paper.

“Thanks.” Wendy followed the street signs to Harlow park, looking up at the glass and metal buildings and searching for the Zsasz family apartment building. It was beautiful, jet black steps leading up to a water feature that depicted a golden Icarus flying into the sun, which was immortalized as a woman with flowing curls, reaching to embrace the winged youth. There were two revolving doors, and one emergency exit between them. She chose the revolving door on the right, grasping the gold handle and pushing on it. A black haired receptionist looked at her from behind red cateye glasses.

“Miss Gordon…” she remarked uninterestedly. “You’re very late.” Wendy hummed matching the woman’s own uninterested tone.

“If Zsasz wanted me to be on time he would’ve given me an address.” she told her with a patronizing grin. “Now, where is that egghead?”

“Right here.” Wendy looked to the old timey elevator nestled between two waterfalls and flags from European countries she couldn’t name. “You’re late.” he scolded, turning his chin up as he looked her up and down.

“So I’ve been told. You could give me your address, then maybe I would get here on time.” he grinned and shrugged.

“What can I say? I have an affinity for dramatics.” Wendy rolled her eyes and took his offered arm. “I also wanted to see if detective skills ran in the family, clearly they do not.” she harrumphed loudly as the elevator doors closed.

“I found you, didn’t I?!” Wendy tried to pull her hand from his elbow but his other hand came to clasp her hand, he smiled fondly at her when she glared at him.

“Three hours late, I told you you had twenty minutes!”

“I don’t get the red pages, Victor, I couldn’t just look you up.” his chest rumbled as he laughed at her joke. Her eyes wandered over him, drinking him in like she might a work of art. Eyes skimming over the creases in his pressed black linen shirt, the silver buckles of his gun holster, the light reflected on his head. She stood on her tip toes and drew uncomfortably close to his face. He peered at her from the corner of his eyes curiously.

“I don’t usually mind beautiful women this close to me, but I’ve gotta ask, what are you doing?” she smiled and drew back down.

“I wanted to see if you had eyelashes. She flicked a brown eyelash off her finger that she had collected from his cheek like evidence. “You do, by the way.” he chuckled helplessly, staring at her like she had seen Micaela stare at Rubik's cubes.

“Thanks…?” he drew out the word like a question. Wendy frowned, but her reply was cut off by the buzzing of the elevator. “Here we are.” they had stopped on the uppermost floor, the penthouse. “Here we are.” Victor exclaimed happily, releasing her arm and instead pressing his palm lightly on the middle of her back, guiding her gently through the elevator doors. His penthouse was a strange mix of sharply modern, coal black and bulletproof glass matching the other buildings around Henlow park, and rustic woods that screamed from among all the black tile. It was sort of classically masculine, elephant tusks hanging from above a minimalist fireplace, a polar bear skin rug nestled between a sleek black couch and matching loveseat. Wendy was immediately drawn to the rug. She slipped from Victor’s hold and knelt by his still gaping mouth.

“Did you get ‘im?” she asked Victor without looking up at him.

“My old man did, he liked killing animals. I don’t care much for hunting though.” he admitted nonchalantly, looking uninterestedly at the rug. Wendy grinned at him, one eyebrow raising in challenge.

“Only assassinating.” she added with a little grin. She stood and brushed off her jeans. “Okay Vic, let’s get down to it.” her hand came to rest on her hips, watching him patiently, waiting for him to take her to a gym or something.

“Is that all you have on you?” he gestured distastefully to her dad’s old navy jacket and band tee. She frowned and looked down at herself.

“I mean… I don’t usually bring my whole closet when I’m planning on working out with strange men.” Victor laughed suddenly, canines flashing as he tossed his head back.

“We’re not working out! Penguin doesn’t want you as muscle, he needs a… more delicate touch.” Wendy laughed loudly and abruptly.

“You’re joking, right?” Victor’s face didn’t change. “I am the least delicate person I know, Vic. What does Penguin expect me to do? Seduce some cops?” Victor nodded.

“Yeah that sounds about right, though I’m sure it won’t be just cops.”

“Ha ha.” her arms crossed over her chest and she glared at him angrily. “I’m not becoming the mob’s prostitute.” Victor’s eyes rolled.

“You won’t be fucking any of them, chillax. Besides, you’re okay with killing them but not flirting a little?” Wendy nodded as if that should be obvious, spreading her arms wide and hitching her shoulders up.

“Yeah! Obviously!”

“C’mon, let’s get started.” he leaned down to slide a dagger from his boot. “For you.” he offered the handle of the blade to her and she took it hesitantly.

“What kind of prostitute needs knife skills?” Victor rolled his eyes at her.

“You’re not a prostitute.” he huffed, pulling out another dagger from inside his coat and throwing it effortlessly at an expensive looking oil painting. It thudded and twanged between the subject of the painting’s eyes. “You’re a spy, and sometimes spies need to stab people.” she turned to the painting he had stabbed and held the point of her dagger awkwardly in three fingers like she had seen him do. She watched the blade wobble and she closed one of her eyes, staring at the guy’s hand that was draped over a small white dog. Her tongue poked out of her glossy lips when she finally threw the knife.

“Fuck.” Wendy cussed when the knife thunked to the ground, clattering against the black floor. “Sorry.” she said, gesturing aimlessly to the knick the knife had carved out of the wood.

“That’s fine, I don’t like the floors anyway.” she never knew whether to nod solemnly or to laugh when Zsasz spoke to her. He used the same tone of voice for death threats and jokes so she was constantly fearing for her life as well and giving subtle chuckles. She settled for a confused half nod and a grin.

“Do you have a room less…” she gestured around the penthouse. “Expensive?” he didn’t say anything, only gesturing for her to follow him. He walked with a little spring in his step, as his feet left the ground they bounced a little, like he was dancing to a tune only he could hear.

The pair boarded the elevator again, and Zsasz pressed the lowermost button, leading to the basement. Zsasz was silent on the ride down, checking and picking at his teeth in the black glass surrounding them, but otherwise he folded his hands and stared silently ahead.

“Do you usually train people for Penguin?” Wendy asked as the elevator dinged and opened its doors. She glanced around the room, it was unassuming on its own. Concrete walls and floors, a folded mat pushed into the corner. Behind a pane of glass hung dozens of knives, arranged by size, and at the other end of the room were three life-sized mannequins punctured with bullet holes. Lining the right wall were two punching bags and a rack lined with weights.

“No, not usually.” Zsasz strolled to the mannequins first, pressing a rectangle on the wall until it sunk in. A shelf lined with handguns slowly slid out and he selected a relatively small one, it was the only silver gun in the midst of seven other black handguns, with an oak inlay. Zsasz checked the barrel for bullets and quickly turned it to the first mannequin, shooting it between the eyes, in the chest, and in the stomach. He turned to Wendy and offered her the handle.

“So why are you training me?” she pointed the gun at the second target, spreading her legs and taking a deep breath, it had been a long time since she shot a gun. Hopefully she wasn’t too out of practice. Wendy fired three bullets in quick succession, head, chest, stomach. Hers were not perfectly lined up, like Zsasz’s had been, but she was satisfied by the impressed little nod he gave her.

“Because I’m good at it, and he’s paying me.” Zsasz plucked the gun from her hand and replaced it with a heftier black handgun. “You can keep that.”

“I’m not licensed.” she said, sliding the gun into the thigh harness he handed her and wrapping it around her leg.

“Neither am I.”


End file.
